


You and Me and the Satellites

by Erica (sign_of_five)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, F/M, M/M, Sherlock - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-22
Updated: 2013-07-30
Packaged: 2017-12-09 04:44:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/770115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sign_of_five/pseuds/Erica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young, teenage Sherlock is trying to find his way to fit in life. He has cares, he likes things, people, he has interests in learning. But no one will allow him to feel things. He is a freak, an outcast, terrifying and evil. Sherlock finds his happy place in someone he knows he can trust, but can he trust this new, mysterious boy?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> -TRIGGER WARNING-  
> There are depictions of self-harm, abuse, and suicide in this story. 
> 
> Also, remember that I do not own any of Arthur Conan Doyle's characters, and thank you to BBC for letting me base them off their version of them.

Standing, composed in front of a mirrior, stood a boy. He took short, controlled breaths with his eyes fixed on his body. He was a lean boy, light-skinned and very tall. His hair was dark, and flowed like rushing water. His eyes were stunning. They could penetrate someones mind with one glance, and could murder another with an intense gaze. But tonight, his eyes were lost. Shot with red and rich with tears, that rolled down his bruised cheeks.

The boys lips quivered with discomfort, and his shoulders were taut with pain. Moving his stare, he surveyed the bathroom counter. Located towards the left, was a bottle of pills. Silently, the boy moved his shivering hand to the pills, and grabbed them. On the side, the bottle read:

"SHERLOCK HOLMES

ZOLPIDEM SLEEPING AID             

TAKE 1 TABLET BY MOUTH EVERY DAY" 

The boy, Sherlock, unscrewed the bottle and tipped it into his hand, leaving on round pill resting in his palm. Dropped it into his open mouth, he swallowed it dry. His shoulders relaxed. Another pill made its way into his mouth. He swallowed that one. And another.

One by one, Sherlock diminished the entire bottle of pills. His eyelids were tranquilized, his shoulders unwinded and his breathing slowed. He wasn't afraid anymore. He was ready. After some time, it was difficult for the tall boy to stand up straight, so he sank to the tiled bathroom floor. Not one noise seeped into the room from the closed door. Sherlock's family was likely deep in their slumber, as the clock on the wall flashed "3:31". The only light in the room was a flickering bulb above the mirror, that made Sherlock's skin flash between a dull tan and a blinding white. Over time, Sherlock's eyes began to flutter, and his prominent face fell into his hands. He disregarded the contact of his bruises, and the blood running down his freshly cut wrists. He felt no pain, no sadness, no fear. He felt nothing, and he embraced it with every last breath he took.

Time was apathetic. Sherlock wanted to go before the sun's light could drain into the tiny room he rested in. In his time, he observed the place. His brother's half-opened toothpaste, the tattered bristles on a toothbrush, his own blood-stained towel on the counter. It smelled of  air-freshener, which was titled "Morning Fog", but didn't smell anything like fog. The only sound in the room was the ticking of the clock. Compared to the infinite silence, the clock could wake an entire city with its ticking. But not Sherlock. Not even a bomb would wake the inanimate, teenaged boy. This boy, known as the creepy, good-for-nothing freak was no longer afraid. Not even the most evil man in the world could hurt him. He was enervated. Exhausted. Done.

Sherlock exhaled deeply as his eyes began to shut. His brain was soon closing into darkness and his heart sank. The door then opened, and he listened to his brother, Mycroft, quietly step into the room before he yelped with dismay.

"Sherlock!" was the last thing Sherlock heard before he died.


	2. People do care

Tantrums of noises, a kaleidoscope of white light, and thousands of footsteps is what a resurrected Sherlock heard as he woke in his hospital bed. A sigh escaped the boy, and he began to survey his surroundings; an IV, with fluids pumping into his body, a scar near his stomach, the door ajar with the rush of human life beyond him. No one accompanied him, so he decided to take a closer look at his mysterious new scar.

 “A pump.” Sherlock muttered to himself, disclosing his most recent case. Flopping back into his pillow, Sherlock ventured into his mind palace, greeted by his old friends who served the castle in his head. A place where he knew he was happy. His mind blossomed with ideas, deductions, and perceptions of the world encircling him. It was as if he was the centre, and infinite amounts of radii connected him to the events in the world. Sherlock was more than a genius, he was a freak.

“A frea-“ Sherlock’s words eradicated as the door was opened cautiously by a young Molly Hooper.

“Sherlock! You’re- you’re awake!” Molly peeked into Sherlock’s conscious gaze, and a flux of tears puddled in her eyes.

 “You are in need of tissues.” Sherlock stated a fact, his usual greeting, and handed Molly a box of angel soft Kleenex. She accepted his rare generous offering, and wiped her eyes diffidently, and returned to talking to him.

“Um, I’m sorry about that…”

Flashing a small grin, Sherlock shifted forgiving eyes towards her. Molly was his best (and only) friend. Sherlock was never a needy person, but he knew that Molly would be his confidant in a heartbeat. The girl was quite obscure though, always both dauntless and faint-hearted at the same time. Her brown eyes were strangely impossible to read and she was quite a sheltered young girl; Molly was a caged bird that never longed to be free.

“So, how do you feel?” Molly questioned.

“Tranquil.” Sherlock twiddled his thumbs in anxious concentration.

“Oh- um, well I’ll leave you alone then.” And with a smile, all traces of Molly faded through the doorway.

Just when Sherlock could escape into his own universe, another visitor entered the room. He was tall, he was inquisitive, he was Mycroft. “Hey asshole.” Mycroft grinned for a split second and tried to hide his uneasy demeanor, but Sherlock was too keen for his games. This is when Sherlock reminded himself that Mycroft was the person who found dead-Sherlock, found the teenage boy stagnant on the cold bathroom floor. Sherlock knew that this was an unforgivable event, and his chest sunk with emotional exhaustion.

One look towards his brother meant a thousand apologies, and the brother nodded. “It’s okay.” Mycroft muttered and stood there, tall and distressed, stifling his emotion. “Um, Mum and Dad want to see you.” He added, sighing as he walked out of the room.

Sherlock’s eyes flickered with worry when his parents came in, he felt ashamed of himself, embarrassed, and he knew he disappointed them.

Sherlock’s mother was unlike most mothers, she did not rush to him to kiss him on the forehead, she did not burst into tears with relief; she was a serious, yet distant woman. As she walked towards him, she stared at him with her piercing blue eyes, a trait Sherlock received from her. His mother did not say a word to her son, she only nodded with approval and let his father through.

Most would expect an extremely emotionally strong man to marry such an independent woman, but this was not the case. Sherlock’s father wasn’t afraid to pour affection out of himself with his words. He was a mental goldmine, an ingenious man who could observe every detail of every event. The feelings came in with Sherlock. The boy was the apple of his eye, the little detective prodigy.

“Dad,” Sherlock’s words came out slow and careful, he tested the waters with a slow talk.

“Shh, you’re fine.” His father smiled, and Sherlock’s body relaxed. With the touch of his father’s hand, he knew that he could make it. He knew he could return to his normal routine, without falling to the moment of death. Sherlock’s father was the one to give him hope. He was ready to leave this hospital bed.


End file.
